The second was a letter, forwarded care of his printer, by one of the London reviews which had noticed his verses.  It was from a rising young London publisher who, it appeared from an envelope enclosed, had already tried to reach him direct at Tyre.  “Henry Mesurier, Esqre, Author of ‘The Book of Angelica,’ Tyre,” the address had run, but the post-office of Tyre had returned it to the sender, with the words “Not known” officially stamped upon it.

He was as yet “not known,” even in Tyre!  “In another five years he shall try again,” said Henry, savagely, to himself, “and we shall see whether it will be ‘not known’ then!”

The letter expressed the writer’s pleasure in the extracts he had seen from Mr. Mesurier’s book, and hoped that when his next book was ready, he would give the writer an opportunity of publishing it.  Fortune was beginning already to smile.

But the third acknowledgment was something more like a frown, and was, at all events, by far the most momentous outcome of Henry’s first publication.  One morning, soon after Mr. Leith had paid over to him his twenty pounds profit, he found himself unexpectedly requested to step into “the private office.”  There, at Mr. Lingard’s table, he found the three partners seated in solemn conclave, as for a court-martial.  Mr. Lingard, as senior partner, was the spokesman.

“Mr. Mesurier,” he began, “the firm has been having a very serious consultation in regard to you, and has been obliged, very reluctantly, I would have you believe, to come to a painful conclusion.  We gladly acknowledge that during the last few months your work has given us more satisfaction than at one time we expected it to give.  But, unfortunately, that is not all.  Your attention to your duties, we admit, has been very satisfactory.  It is not a sin of omission, but one of commission, of which we have to complain.  What we have to complain of as business men is a matter which perhaps you will say does not concern us, though on that point we must respectfully differ from you.  Mr. Mesurier, you have recently published a book.”

Henry drew himself up haughtily.  Surely that was nothing to be ashamed of.

“It is quite a pretty little book,” continued Mr. Lingard, with one of his grim smiles.  “It contains some quite pretty verses.  Oh, yes, I have seen it,” and Henry noticed a copy of the offending little volume lying, like a rose, among some legal papers at Mr. Lingard’s left hand; “but its excellence as poetry is not to the point here.  Our difficulty is that you are now branded so unmistakably as a poet, that it is no use our any longer pretending to our clients that you are a clerk.  So long as you were only suspected of being a poet,” and the old man smiled again, “it did not so much matter; but now that all Tyre knows you, by your own act and deed, as a poet, the case is different.  We can no longer, without risk of losing confidence with our clients, send an acknowledged poet to inspect their books—­though, personally, we may have every faith in your capacity.  No doubt they will be glad enough to buy your books in the future; but they will be nervous of trusting you with theirs at the moment.”  And the old man laughed heartily at his own humour.